Trigger/Content Warning: Zea's POV contains some allusions to past self-harm.
Lucent Saccharyn POV:
The last ceremony went fairly calmly, as I'd expected. The male tribute seems very average in nature. He'll be predictable enough, probably making it out of the Bloodbath but dying in the first half. However, there's something odd about the girl who volunteered that I just can't put my finger on. She did it very quickly and impulsively, as though she didn't think before doing it. That mentality could serve her well in the arena, but it could also really backfire depending on what obstacles she's faced with. Whatever the case, she's definitely a wildcard.
Now only District Nine is left, and the Reapings are finally almost over. I don't understand why we have to televise the whole thing. We're looking to see who the tributes are and their initial reactions to getting picked, there's no need to hear twelve different versions of the same speech. District Nine tributes usually have strong survival skills, particularly with identifying safe foods to eat and finding water. For this reason, when they get past the first day, they tend to fare pretty well.
For this Reaping, I'm hoping for at least one stronger tribute. Someone who will maybe get a seven or so in training, who can pose a challenge for some of the Careers. I've seen a few tributes I think could do that, but one more would really balance out the field of tributes perfectly. For some reason, I have a particularly good feeling about District Nine, but now all I can do for now is sit and wait to see what happens.
Zea Poales, 18, D9F:
I woke up very early this morning. Normally my shifts at the tavern are late at night, when the patrons are drunk and rowdy, but I got assigned to an earlier time today. Breakfast shifts are when the usual bar foods are served, but alcohol isn't, and they are usually highly coveted because everyone is in a good mood and nobody yells insults or hassles you, but nights are much better for me in particular. The tavern hosts all the usual bar games, and people bet on them, but most importantly, there's a pot for the winner.
I'm an expert at darts. I definitely think it's dumb to let angry, intoxicated people around sharp objects, but it's an extra source of income. I can beat just about anyone at darts, and besides, it's a fun thing to do. There's no better feeling than walking home late at night after winning the prize, palming the coins in my hand, along with my usual paycheck. I definitely wish I could have bagged an evening shift today, but still, I have to take whatever work I can get. I've been serving tables all morning and I'm already exhausted.
I sidle up to a small one in the corner, next to a window. "Alright sugar, what can I get for you today?" The family sitting in the booth smiles at me. I tend to act very bubbly and cheerful around the customers, even if I'm not actually feeling that way. "Oh, can we start off with some milk and a bannock to share? With rabbit meat and butter, please," says the father.
"Sure!" I eagerly write down their order on my notepad and hustle through the maze of chairs and tables to the kitchen door. I shove the flaps open with my shoulder and walk in to give my order sheet to the chefs. One of them takes a quick look at it and gives orders to a few underlings. The kitchen chefs each perform individual tasks, some deal with the bread itself, others with meats and vegetables. I hurry over to the polished wooden bar counter, where there are large jugs of various beverages. I fill a few glasses up with milk, and bring them around to the table. "Here you go!" I say, passing them out. "Your food will be ready shortly!"
I move on to the next table, and the next, taking orders and giving them to the cooks. They don't always make the food very quickly, but us waitresses have to be on top of everything we do. I finally stop back in the kitchen to find that the order of a rabbit-meat bannock has just been prepared. I scoop up the platter and deliver it to the family's table, carrying on throughout my shift. Finally, I take the payment from the customers and go to put it in the till. I turn my remaining tables over to the older waitresses from the next shift because it's almost time for the Reaping.
I walk home quickly. My father is sitting at the table, holding a chipped mug that contains some sort of brown liquid. I'd like to think it's tea, but more likely it's brandy. He's really deteriorated since Mom died five years ago. Now he spends most of his time wallowing in his own misery and drinking alcohol to wash the slate clean. Then again, it's not as though I don't have my own cross to bear. I still have the scars from that low period of life. Physical scars, scattered along my arms, peppering my thighs in some places. They've faded quite a bit, but every time I look at them, Mom's death still feels fresh in my mind.
I go to my room at the end of the short hall. When Mom was still her, it always felt so tiny yet cozy, but now it feels large and empty despite having only three rooms. No laughing fills the space anymore. I unfold my Reaping dress from my small shelf. It's still as pretty as I remember, a yellow-gold hue for the blouse bit and brown for the skirt. I've worn it every year since I was twelve and had to pin the whole top part to make it fit right. Now I'll wear it for the last time. It's too tight in the bodice area, and the short sleeves sit at an uncomfortable angle on my arms, but it'll do.
I share the kitchen table with Dad as I eat a bowl of wheat porridge. It reminds me of all the things Mom cooked for me when I was younger, all the morning meals of grain before she sent me off to school. Now there is no school, only work. Once I'm finished, I put some water in the bowl so it's easier to clean later and set it on the counter. Occasionally having to cover for one of the dish boys at work has taught me that trick.
I leave Dad without saying goodbye. I don't resent him as much as I used to, but I don't have any great love for him. He's not dependable as a parent, that's for sure. The Peacekeeper at the check in booth pricks my finger and lets me into the pens. I don't really have any friends here, just occasional acquaintances. The girl who sells wild greens at the market, a couple of rich boys who are regulars at the tavern. I pass them all by, standing in my section quietly, listening to the chatter of the people around me.
The escort finally takes the stage. Despite being from the Capitol, he's pretty beloved in the district. "Good morning, District Nine!" he begins. "It's great to have you all back for this year's annual Reaping ceremony. We'll begin by watching the standard video." He clicks a remote of some sort, and the montage begins playing on the screen behind him. Once it finishes, he makes a few short remarks about the Treaty of Treason and then begins to pull the female slip.
"Zea Poales," he says.
Radley Allaway, 17, D9M:
I wake up slowly, lazily. The bed is soft and warm, and I'm cocooned in warm covers and a mattress stuffed with oat hulls. I look around the whitewashed room. There's no sign of the scene from my nightmare. I dreamed about being forced into the Hunger Games, and mutts of all sorts were chasing me while I flew right into the upturned spears of the Career Pack.
It's probably because today is Reaping Day, where the Capitol begins the annual process of corralling citizens from the districts into submission by forcing their children to fight to the death. There are few things that scare me more than the thought of being chosen at the Reaping, but I have at least an hour until I have to face that unfortunate prospect.
Instead, I get up and stumble into the kitchen for breakfast. My family members look equally exhausted, including the adults. It took a long time for everyone to get to sleep last night. Three teenagers, each taking tesserae for a family of six, is enough to keep a concerned parent up at night. We're all still in our nightshirts, but someone gets to filling plates with the lumpy spelt we boiled last night. It's the consistency of the glue made in the factory they send the lame carthorses to, and not very filling, but it's enough to survive on. Barely. We eat in silence, but the grown-ups keep sending worried glances to each other across the table.
"Hey kids, when you're done, why don't you go play in the backyard?" This is Mom's way of saying she has things to discuss that she'd rather us kids not hear. Our family is quite large for District Nine. There's Mom and Dad, and Auntie Tamsin who lives with us. Also her two kids, Rodney at sixteen and Dara at eighteen. They all moved in when I was three or so, after the glue factory my uncle worked at was destroyed.
Some of the turpentine they use to help heat up the glue wasn't stored property and got spilled on the grain field the shop is set on. Someone else was smoking a precious homemade cigar and a bit of ash fell-the whole place was engulfed in a foul-smelling fire. The wood kegs they heat the glue in burned, of course, and the heated glue got on everything. By the time the fire had stopped, the glue had dried, coating everything in the area with a sticky brown film. The bodies could barely be identified.
Dad still works there (he had been on an errand at the time of the fire) but Auntie Tamsin refuses to hear anything about it. The reason we even have a glue factory when we're the grain district is because of the horses. Glue is made by boiling down horses, and we're the district with the most horses. We use them to help harvest and carry around the loads of wheat in wagons, and because every family has horses, there's quite the supply of dead ones to be sent for processing. The horses are actually why we take out tesserae grain, why most families in the district do. It's tough to afford decent food for an animal that eats so much, and horses eat quite a bit more than humans do.
As a result, nearly all of our tesserae grain goes to the three horses we have. They eat it with much less complaint than we do.
The second we've cleared our plates, Dad ushers Dara, Rodney, and me into the backyard. The warm summer air almost seems to envelop us. Dara idly picks a few flowers and starts weaving them together in a circle. The three of us don't speak for a few minutes, all worrying individually about the Reaping. Then Rodney speaks. "Are you afraid for this morning?" he asks.
"I'd be stupid not to be afraid. We all know that the odds are not in our favor." Dara braids her flowers more aggressively in irritation, if it's even possible to do such a thing. She's really right though. Rodney takes out six tesserae, and it's his fifth year of being eligible. That means he has his name in the running thirty-five times. Dara, being eighteen, has hers in forty-nine times. Mine is in forty-two times. Kids in most families take out tesserae, but having a large family, we have a much higher probability of being selected.
"Of course I'm afraid. I'm pretty much dead if I get picked." It's true. I have almost no skills that would be of use in the arena if I were to go there. The question isn't of whether or not I'm going to get picked. It would be sad, but not shocking.
"Come on. You work in the wheat fields. You can use a sickle as well as Mom or Aunt Jemima. You'd fare a damn lot better than I would!" Rodney seems indignant, angry that I'd even consider my potential death, but Dara and I know better. I've known kids who've gotten picked and loudly proclaimed that they know a little about plants and can use this or that tool, so they'll obviously be well-off in the arena. Every one of them has died.
"I hate to break it to you, but a Career with ten years f training would definitely beat a district kid who knows how to cut wheat, okay? Admit it, I wouldn't survive. None of us could." Rodney's still angry and appears ready to fire back, but Dara stops him.
"Settle down, boys. No betting on who would die first, we're not Capitolites and there's no use arguing anyway. Besides, it's almost time for the Reaping. We've all got to get dressed." We trek back into the house, where the adults are quietly whispering in grave voices. It's clear they're worried about us today. I go to my room and find my set of formal clothes. I have a pair of khaki pants and a stiff white linen blouse. I put both on, along with a pair of brown leather shoes.
Mom, Dad, and Auntie Tamsin walk all three of us to the square. Dara has given each one of us a flower crown, including the adults. The Peacekeeper who pricks our fingers comments on Dara's, but she ignores him. We're no great fans of the Peacekeepers. The adults all tearfully hug us goodbye, then jostle for position in the crowd of people outside the pens. Every parent in the district is worried for their children today.
The escort is actually rather nice. He's been working here for several years, and tends to be a little more tolerable than most of the Capitol folk. He gives a brief spiel about how good it is to have us back and how Panem is a great place to live, and then gets down to it by picking the female tribute. I pity her, but at least Dara is safe. The girl, Zea, is surely terrified, but masks it well with a wink and a half-smile. She still walks up tentatively though, so I'm guessing she's trying to just shrug it off and put on a brave face.
The escort puts his hand into the boys' bowl, and there's a dreadful moment of fear when he unfolds it. This is the bit where everyone hopes and prays that their name isn't on that slip, me included. Let it not be Rodney, not be me, nor anyone I know. Please let it not be me. Please.
"Your male tribute is Radley Allaway!"
It's me. I already know nobody is going to volunteer. Family ties only go so far when your life is on the line. I think frantically about the best way to act, what might come back to bite me later, what I want my first impression to be on the Capitol. The Hunger Games are a popularity contest, so it's not like it matters, but wait-popularity-sponsors! That's what I need to do. Appeal to the rich folks in the Capitol by being the sort of tribute they like.
I'm not quiet. Not mysterious or flirty. But I can definitely be charming, cocky, maybe a little shy, and the Capitol eats that up. I can feel people backing away, giving me space to walk forward. I wipe the fear off my face and replace it with a broad smile. Mom and Dad and Auntie Tamsin look horrified. I try to steady myself and not get hysterical. This would be a bad time to trip and faceplant. I walk up at a reasonable pace, giving a slight wave once I reach the stage.
"Excellent, we have our tributes. Now, do either of you two have something you'd like to say to your fellow citizens?"
"Um, yes actually." Zea straightens her dress a bit. "I'd like to thank the Capitol for being so kind." It's clear that she's playing the same game I am, hiding her distaste for the government by drowning it in false praise.
"Me as well," I say. "I'm nervous to compete of course, but the Capitol was very generous in giving us this opportunity to atone for our ancestors' crimes and I'm very proud to represent my district. Thanks for that." The escort, who's probably a bit put off by our display, expertly plays down the awkwardness by concluding the ceremony.
"I know we all want to hear them some more, but we really must keep to time. You'll get to see these two excellent young people later tonight, during the Tribute Parade. Best of luck to you all and your families, and may the odds be ever in your favor."
Hey y'all! Let me tell you, it's absolutely thrilling to be finished with the Reapings. Next up will be the goodbye chapters, and the first one will be posted on Tuesday. Now that we've been introduced to every tribute, make sure to leave a review telling me which ones are your favorites and why!
~LC